Where Is Thy Horn
by Obscure Bird
Summary: A few more orcs, a few more minutes, and the battle at Amon Hen goes only slighty differently. The Horn of Gondor is not broken but stolen, and when blown after its its bearer's death, brings unexpected results...
1. Prologue

_Initially, I intended to hold this story back until I had written more, but I post it now in light of recent events:_

_I dedicate this story to the memory of my best friend, Matthew, who sank yesterday into that last, long sleep to wake no more in pain. Hard is the parting of a man and his dog, and there was never a sweeter-natured dog than my poor old Matty. Rest in peace, champ._

_The Lord of the Rings and its characters belong to JRR Tolkien and his heirs. I stake no claim._

.  


**Prologue:**

The whole benighted landscape about the Anduin, and about the Ranger who watched its waters, lay restless. The moon rode overhead veiled by shifting cloud, and the reeds whispered beneath the wind. Nothing else moving met the watcher's eye. And yet, Faramir recalled, orcs' eyes saw better in the dark them men's. Orcs, and death, had been ever present lately.

This fact weighed the more heavily on his mind, as in his memory he heard the echoes of a horn blowing in the forests to the north.

Three days had passed, and yet there came no sign of the bearer of that horn. Through the long months since he had heard it last – on the day his brother left for Imladris – he recalled the sound, and cursed the decision that sent Boromir in his stead, but now he cursed it more fiercely still. He cursed, and sat alone, and the death-ridden darkness sat around him.

His eyes swept the river, and he beheld on the stream a small, high-prowed boat. No oar touched the water; it drifted silently with the current, and about it played a gentle light like a straying moonbeam. The thought occurred to Faramir that the boat could be a ruse, a lure to draw sentries out into range of orc archers. But he neither saw nor heard any sign of the enemy, and so, cautiously, he waded out toward its path.

He recognized the body of a man before he touched the bow. In such times, it surprised him little. But as he leaned in closer to the ghostly light, he cried out in careless horror. Through all the intervening months, the image of his brother remained perfect in his mind. The corpse in the river matched that image so flawlessly that there could be no doubt, yet the contrast was terrible. The man who left in pride and strength and courage returned torn, his body stripped of all its finery, his eyes blank and face twisted in rage and anguish. Faramir fell, the cold water clutching at his chest, and his arms thrust, clawing, over the side of the funeral boat. His hand touched the corpse's stiff arm.

"Boromir! Where is thy horn? Whither goest thou? O Boromir!"*

The night swallowed his voice, and his hands let slip the sides of the boat. Boromir floated on, and the Anduin wrapped his brother in a chill like death.

.

*_Line taken directly from _The Two Towers.

_More a'comin'._


	2. Chapter 1

_I own no rights to the Lord of the Rings. This story is not for profit._

_Dedicated, again, to my late friend Matthew._

**Where Is Thy Horn: Chapter One**

Rohan

Three Days Past

Jolting across the miles of rock and field on the armored back of an orc, Merry languished between a nightmare and a waking horror. Every sort of terror swarmed about him, from the cat-eyed goblins of Moria to the massive creatures that bore the emblem of a grasping white hand. They had had them surrounded all the way from Perth Galen, where Boromir-

He thought he heard Pippin call his name. He couldn't tell. It was lost amidst the noise and the memories. In his reeling mind, he still heard the younger hobbit screaming as Boromir fell again against the tree at their back. The horn of Gondor had swung back on its long strap. It was no use to call for aid if one would be dead before it came, and so he had dropped the horn and fought. Fought with arrows in his chest. Fought like he was born to it. The hobbits moved behind him as into the lee of a great rock in a high wind.

And then, with a crack like a shattering stone, his sword broke. He recalled clearly the shards of steel gleaming as they flew through the sunlight, and the realization that their hope of shelter had ended.

Merry gasped as he bounced against his captor's back. The cries of the goblins rose all around him. Was Pippin calling his name still? His head ached.

_Of course it aches. _His memory replayed the sudden grip of claws, a lift, a swing, the tree trunk looming swiftly closer. And even then, Pippin had still been screaming, although, for Boromir at least, it was already too late. As soon as the man's sword snapped, Pip had started crying out, over and over, to any of the Fellowship who might have heard them. Until the big soldier fell at last, his body sprouting a forest of black arrows. Then the cry was only, "Boromir! Boromir! Boromir!" Like a frightened lamb bleating, "Boromir!"

"Merry!" The lamb called to him above the tramp of many iron shoes.

But there was no use calling. In the forest, the orcs had piled on their champion like dogs, tearing and stabbing and thieving. There was no hope, no salvation. The same orcs ran all about them now.

"_Merry!"_

Pippin was calling. He opened his eyes, and saw again that sea of hateful faces. His head hurt and the whole world seem to shake and jostle. But among the crowd, Merry saw a familiar horn, bound with silver and stained with blood, clutched in the filthy claws of one of the orcs.

There was no hope, no salvation.

And finally, consciousness slid away from him.

.

Pippin lay on the ground where he'd been thrown and wept as the sky grew dark. In so few hours, he'd seen so many miles and so many horrors. Even all the long leagues from the Shire seemed short by comparison, and, while he'd been afraid before, at least he'd had the Fellowship. Now Merry alone was with him, laying unconscious and out of reach, and all the others uncounted miles behind them. _And maybe they never found Frodo at all, and Boromir – Oh, poor Boromir._

He squeezed his eyes shut, but he still saw the jagged blade that tore across the big man's throat, the great hand that tried feebly, at the very last, to throw off his attackers. Pippin's throat closed on itself, and he wasn't sure whether he was trying to wail or vomit. He rolled miserably onto his side, wishing his hands were free to wipe his tears away, and, overcome, fell into sleep like stone dropped into water.

When he awoke, he bore the noises of the host with greater courage. Merry still lay some yards away, and Pippin watched his sides rise and fall gently. The air was cool; the moss beneath then was damp. Pippin breathed deeply and listened.

The speech of the orcs came rough and harsh, as if he lay beneath a tree full of squawking birds in the fall, but gradually he could discern the accents of their tongues, and some words in Westron. The sounds of an argument became apparent, voices rising and falling in anger, though he caught only snatches of it.

"Why not kill them quick, kill them now?" a voice said. "Nobody came all this way to cart about a pair of dirty little rats," said another. "Eat! Give us to eat 'em," a shrill voce cried. "Eat 'em and drink the blood!" But those at the crux of the argument took no heed of any of them.

"They go straight to Mordor, says I." This voice was harsh and grating and cold like steel, and it sounded over the rest. "What business has Saruman got taking first bite at the Great Eye's little morsels? We should go east under the shadow, not romp through horse country for an upstart wizard!"

Answering the sly, steely voice, he heard another, deep and hoarse and powerful, like the bark of a great deep-chested dog. "They go to Isengard, and they go unspoiled!"

_Is Isengard or Mordor the worse place? _Pippin wondered. _All we are is waiting to see if we fall into the frying pan or the fire._

"I am Ugluk. I command," the dog-voice roared. "I return to Isengard by the shortest road!"* Around it, a clamor rose even louder, but still it boomed on: "We are the Fighting Uruk-Hai! We slew the great warior. We are the servants of Saruman the Wise, the White Hand: the Hand that gives us man's-flesh to eat."

Pip felt a twang in his stomach, either of sorrow or sickness. _Poor Boromir_. The image flashed again of that great body thrown at the foot of the tree, and of the rest of the Fellowship either dead, too, or far away, following Frodo into Mordor. But sorrow has its limits, and Pippin lay well past them.

The sounds of conflict grew louder, and he heard distinctly the grating of weapons being drawn. Turning, he craned to see past Merry's still form. The goblins, armed, hopped about like so many angry fleas, screaming in rage at what could only be Ugluk. A pillar of black stone, he stood with sword held aloft and stared down a smaller orc, long-armed and bow-legged and as wicked-looking as anything Pippin had ever seen.

The whole rabble shuffled into action around the two. Even the Halflings' guards ran to the fray. Pippin squirmed, trying to inch across the stone toward Merry like a great wooly-footed caterpillar. His heart raced. The sound of clashing blades encouraged him. _Wake up, Merry! If we could run right now…_

Suddenly, the sound of combat rang above and behind him, and clawed feet stomped about his head. Pippin quickly set to making himself as small and still as possible. An orc fell bellowing over Merry, and Pippin flinched as a wave of orc-smell washed over him. He half-looked up.

A dark blade swung over him, and another orc fell, landing hard flat on top of the Hobbit. Pippin cried out, but the thing twitched and then moved no more. He could feel its blood seeping through his elvish cloak.

The fight and its storm of stamping feet swept past them. Pippin tried to push the carcass off of him, but he couldn't shift it. With his hands bound he was helpless, and the weight and smell of the orcs smothered him. He settled for straining to turn his face away from it into fresher air.

Boromir was dead, and Strider and the others were far away. Pippin knew that he and Merry stood alone now, that they had no recourse but to shift for themselves. And as terrible as the thought was, the Took's son determined to do what he must.

The orc still lay on top of him, but it had drawn its knife, and blade lay on the mossy rock, perhaps a hand span or two from the Hobbit's side. It was stained, and the moonlight on its blade highlighted the cutting edge.

Listening carefully, Pippin guessed the orcs, still caught up in their battle, to have moved off, he reached out for the blade and slid the ropes around his wrists carefully along the jagged edge.

.

The raiders moved on again well before the moon reached its peak, and the eyes of the northern goblins shone like cats' eyes in the dark. Still the factions snarled at each other, but their course, for the present, was decided. The Uruk-Hai prevailed. They would bring their captives straight to Saruman.

Although Pippin supposed he was likely being dragged to his doom, he found some small blessings. The bonds around his ankles had been cut, and he was allowed to run. He went on numbed feet, and then through the tingling pains of reawakening limbs, and ran under the urging of the lash, but at least for a while it seemed fine to stand on his own feet. And with the cut ropes retied loosely about his wrists, he could be free at any moment. At the _right_ moment. Though they ran him till his lungs burned and his legs ached, he felt a thrill of triumph.

Merry, too, had revived, to the Took's relief, and ran groggily along as well.

They jogged along as best they could, and Pippin prayed that an opportunity would appear, and that when it did, he would have the strength to seize it.

It was nearly dawn when that opportunity finally arrived, and the Halfling's breath tore at his throat. His legs moved solely on the power of fear of the lash. He had no more strength in him.

But the weaker orcs seemed little better. Still discontent, they were unaccustomed to the long run, and finally Ugluk called a halt. Some ran ahead to scout the path, while the Moria folk fretted in their goblin tongue. Pippin's legs collapsed beneath him.

_Air in, air out, more air in… _He knelt, parched, with his eyes shut. _Just breathe. _Nothing else registered, even the reek of the orcs, until the rushing of blood faded from his ears, and at last he opened his eyes.

The sky, he saw, grew lighter, a pale silver spreading from the east, and he heard a breeze whispering in the grass beside their trampled path. He listened as he sat and gathered strength.

Then, further off, above the orcs' panting and grumbling, he heard new sounds – shouting and the beat of hooves. _Orcs don't ride horses! _Pippin craned his neck, hoping for a glimpse of the riders through the crowd of orcs, but saw or heard nothing but the cry, "Scouts are back."

He couldn't hear the report, but hope remained. Someone, somewhere, could save them. _If only they knew we were here._

But already the Uruks began to beat their cohorts into motion, the forerunners starting on. No shout from his ragged throat could be heard over the din. He drew a long breath, but his guard snatched his wrists, dragging him up again.

The swarm of orcs closed around him as he ran. And suddenly, he saw hope bouncing at the side of an ill-favored eastern orc: Boromir's bloodstained horn.

The Halfling's captor found himself holding an empty rope before he knew what had happened. The horn's thief felt only a sudden tug at its leather strap as Pippin lunged at it, pressed it to his lips, and blew with all the force of desperation.

The result was disappointing. A miserable toot. As the orcs turned on him in outrage, the sun rose.

.

The sun rose on the rocky path of the orcs, and the three hunters who followed it. Along the bed of a stream, the three climbed, and Aragorn relished the cooling mists that hovered over the water. They had run hard for so long, and had so much further still to follow.

He paused for a moment to feel the breeze, carrying the scent of meadows, and, looking back, he saw the sunrise spill red across the mountaintops in the east – spill over Gondor.

Gondor, the homeland of one who would never see the sunrise again. Aragorn knew well death in battle, but he allowed himself a pang of regret. He wished he had known sooner the course to take. He wished he had come sooner to Boromir's aid, or that he knew what had passed between him and Frodo, that he could at least have spoken comfort to the younger man after rebuking him at the camp.

Behind him, Legolas and Gimli stopped as well, and the three faced east in silence for a moment, while the stream murmured at their feet and somewhere close, a nesting bird gave its first tentative cry.

"We must go," Legolas said at last. And Aragorn knew they must. He turned to go. But suddenly, a deadly chill burst over them from behind, carrying the smell of blood and river weeds. The cold overtook them and was gone, like a burst of wind.

Another moment passed. Gimli shook himself, and the rings of his corselet clanked. "An ill wind was that."

"It was no earthly wind." Legolas stared after it, thoughtfully. "It pursues our foe with great urgency."

_So it does,_ Aragorn thought, but he felt strange, as rangers sometimes felt among the Barrow Downs, among the dead who would not sleep. He shivered. "Come. We must make haste." And, turning again to the trail, they bounded up the rocky sides of the stream and after their quarry.

.

The sun blinked red over the horizon as a snarling Uruk-Hai slung Pippin once again onto its back. His captors' wrath had been brief, but terrifying, and his back still stung where the lash had bit through his cloak and shirts. And, as he rode bouncing away again on the orc's broad, armored back, what hope had he gained? What answer came to his call?

And then, running just barely inside the range of his sight, he thought he saw a familiar form: a man's shape, sodden, bloodstained and torn, clutching a broken sword. Or perhaps it was a trick of his tear-filed eyes, for it vanished into the red light of dawn.

.

*_Line taken directly from _The Two Towers.

_Thanks for sticking past the prologue. This story will draw mostly on the books, but I expect there will be some movie influences as well. As is it goes on, I think it will center increasingly on one character – yes, one character who is dead. Why let that get in his way? _

_I'm not (consciously?) drawing inspiration from any particular fics, but there are several with several here with a similar idea, and I'd like to mention them, since I've read them, and they say your head can work at things without your even knowing it. Also, because they are great. They are majorbee's "Soul Full," fleurdl's "I Will Turn my Head Until My Darkness Goes," and casapazzo's "From the Grey Twilight."_

_Reviews appreciated._


	3. Chapter 2

_I do not known Lord of the Rings. This story is not for profit._

_For Matthew._

**Where Is Thy Horn: Chapter 2**

He had been aware only dimly; his existence was as the awareness of one dreaming who realizes he is asleep. Amid blindness and numbness, he felt a need to struggle, a need to rise, and yet was trapped within a body that would respond to neither urge. This only he knew.

And then a call, unlooked for, unrecognized, unknown, and he rose, as one ill and groggy, and ran in a blinding weariness. The sensation of the still, cloying flesh vanished, and he ran.

Heedless, he chased he knew not what with an urgency he did not understand.

And then, amid rock and plain, he found the Halflings, the horn, and the orcs, and memory came to Boromir son of Denethor, as a light shining through deep waters. And the memory was terrible.

.

Merry guessed it was near noon when the goblin died. The shadows of the running orcs had shrank beneath them. He imagined the sun was what crippled it. The light seemed to affect the smaller orcs. He'd seen some stagger, some tire, some bump into their cohorts as if blind. But they had heard a screaming like a pig's from off to the right flank, well ahead of Merry's bearer, and order – tenuous at best among this rabble – dissolved. For a moment, Merry's heart leapt, hoping to see an arrow sprouting from some Uruk's neck, but from his perch, he saw none.

Instead, the goblin flailed, still shrieking, as if something had gotten a hold of it and it couldn't pull free. But nothing was visible. Quickly he was surrounded by his chattering northern kin, who shook him and pulled his flying limbs, but they couldn't stop his crying, nor move him, until Ugluk and the Uruk-Hai drove them away with whips. The goblin he cured by laying open its chest with a stroke of his sword.

Merry blamed it on the sun, and was thankful for it. But as his guard bore him past the crumpled form, he saw its eyes fixed in terror and felt a sudden chill.

And when the shadows stretched out again beneath them, he saw the scout, running back to join the main force, stumble, fall, and rise no more. An Uruk ran to him – this time the fallen was an Uruk-Hai, one of their own, more valuable than the goblin rabble. He had been struck, as with a knife, and was dead. And yet, though Merry strained to see, the waving grass as far as the horizon gave no sign of friend or foe, and the sign of hope became a token of fear.

At the far head of the column, Ugluk barked out orders, and orcs ran into the fields on either side, shouting and bearing their blades aloft. Merry found himself carried further into the huddle of goblin soldiers and dropped into the grass near Pippin.

He lay for a moment, and the smell of the trampled grass strengthened him. The guards had stepped back, more interested in the invisible enemy on the plains. On his knees and elbows, he crawled to Pippin.

There was dried blood staining Pip's clothes about the whip's cut, and the mark of tears lay on his cheeks. Worst of all, his arms stuck out stiffly before him, the new rope around his wrist tied painfully tight. But the younger hobbit's face wore a thoughtful expression, grief tinged with hope.

Merry wriggled up beside him, and lay a moment. "Good evening, Pip." Pippin met his eyes, but what was there to say, bound and surrounded? Merry breathed deeply the smell of grass and earth. "God, I'm hungry."

Faintly, Pippin smiled. "I'm hungry, too." He flexed his stiff fingers, and the pair listened to the unintelligible clamor of the orcs. To one side, the tramp of iron-shod feet signaled the return of one of the search parties. Pippin caught Merry's eye again. "Did you see it, Merry?"

_See what?_ There were so many teeming details to have noticed, or failed to, that Merry hardly knew what to answer. But he looked again at Pippin's newly tied wrists. "No, but I heard it. That was brave of you, Pip."

To his surprise, the Took snorted and jerked his head impatiently, his curly locks bouncing out of his eyes. "But did you see _him?_"

Now, again, Merry was at a loss. "Who, Pip?"

Pippin lay silent, his cheek on the grass. He looked thoughtful. Marry wondered at the sight of him. He was so much still the young, playful hobbit he had always been, and yet so different. The thought of Pippin laying in quiet reflection in any circumstances would only lately have been absurd.

With bewildered cries, the searchers returned from the fields. The goblins whispered and the Uruk-Hai snarled, and nervous confusion sat upon the whole horde. But Ugluk soon set them on again, shoving into the circle of orcs with sword drawn. "Get moving you, rats! Get up the Halflings. Go on, you pigs, run!" He slapped a goblin moving too slow with the flat of his blade. It fell, sprawling, and with a rattle, all its arrows tumbled from its quiver. Looking back, Merry saw with the surprise that they were broken- every shaft snapped into jagged halves. The orc cried out in horror. Ugluk, cursing it, drove it with the flat of his blade all the way to the front.

"He's dead, but I saw him, Merry." Pippin's eyes were fixed on the shattered arrows as the host began to move around them. "In the morning when I blew the horn. Merry, it's- "

The tramp of heavy shoes approached and startled them to silence. Great black claws reached down for them. There came the nauseous swing, the thump against the orc's shoulder. Away west, beyond the grass, Merry saw the sun sinking into a red twilight, and he heard Ugluk roaring, "Run your feet raw, boys. Whatever's out there, we'll lose it in the night."

Before their bearers began to run, Merry saw Pippin give a faint, grim smile.

.

Pippin could still recall the story of Maybelle Bracegirdle's ghost, sitting at his grandfather's knee in the Great Smial in his childhood. He recalled even more clearly the fear in the darkness, and the screaming of cornstalks in the wind, when he and his sister had ventured out into the night to see the bridge she was supposed to haunt. Even surrounded by orcs, rather than the stuff of his granda's fibs, he thought of it. Because he remembered still the well-known fact that all the ghosts and terrors of the world came out at night.

And through the long dark, Boromir did not disappoint.

A Mordor orc's dagger vanished from its sheath. No one noticed it was missing until it reappeared in the back of another. The Uruk-Hai slew the owner of the blade, even as he shouted about to discover who stole it.

A wail, on occasion, pierced the darkness, coming from the back of the line, and the whole group condensed as the stragglers edged toward the safety of the pack. Ugluk's hand-picked Uruk-Hai, armed with whips, drove them on.

And throughout the night, a fearful chill swept through the horde. The cold hung over you, Pippin thought, breathed on your neck, and then moved on. Not quite a wind, unless a wind could hang over your shoulder that way. And as it passed, the dark shapes of the orcs ran harder.

But Pippin was not afraid. Throughout that dark and dreadful night, feeling nothing but the strain on his arms and the jolting against his bruised ribs, he beheld his plight from a distance, as if it were a line in one of Bilbo's songs. He thought of the companions he'd likely never meet again, even if rescue came. He thought of the chill that rattled the orcs and the spirit torn so lately from its body, wrenched from poor Boromir's flesh with arrowheads. He thought, but not as he would have thought only days ago. Pippin felt himself different. No longer an innocent, laughing Shireling, but one resigned to danger, and quite ready to see his foes destroyed. _And the sooner the better, in fact._

The cold brushed by him, blowing near and spooking his bearer. Suddenly, Pippin felt upon his bound wrists the firm clasp of a large, icy hand. The Uruk-Hai carrying him jerked to a stop, horrified.

The hand vanished, and the hobbit felt a sudden flash of concern: _they_ may have stopped, but the orcs behind them certainly had not. Bracing himself for impact, he heard a blow, but felt nothing. Instead, the creature behind him fell as if struck. His bearer sprinted on, as did the others, grinding their cohort into the earth as they ran.

Pippin felt strange, perhaps a little sick. He lay his head against his arm, stretched over the orc's shoulder. But still he thought again, _The same to the rest of them._

.

"Yet another puzzle we find." Legolas paused to nudge a stiffening goblin with the tow of his boot, examining it in the early light of day. "We passed others in the night."

Gimli huffed as he stopped panting beside the elf. "Hardly a puzzle that the monsters kill one another. And the more of them dead, the better." The dwarf spat, and wiped his brow with the back of a calloused hand. "But if we may rest while we seek the answer, than puzzle away, master elf."

Some yards ahead, Aragorn stood, stamping at the trampled sod, reluctant to leave his aching legs still long enough to cool and hurt in earnest. "If the signs read like a battle, I would agree with you, Gimli. The space between corpses is too great. These were taken as they ran, and one at a time. And yet I see no sign of any attacker."

Legolas looked past the ranger. "No sign on earth or grass." That grass waved gently on as far as they could see, except for the wide swath crushed by the feet of the foe. "And yet a feeling lingers, as of a cold dawn among graves."

Aragorn ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair. Much of his life he had spent among elves. He loved and admired them. And yet he thought irritably of the adage, Go not to the elves for counsel, for they will tell you both no and yes.* "What do you sense, Legolas?"

The wood elf hesitated, staring intently at the carcass. "I sense…" His brow furrowed, his face troubled. "I sense the hand of one dead. It is strange, and yet I feel…"

"Like it's someone familiar?" Gimli's voice was gruff. He said no more, but Aragorn knew well the thought – the memory of their recent dead.

The ranger looked down, studying the white trees engraved in the leather vambraces he had taken from Boromir.** It had seemed a fine gesture, one of carrying the younger man's hopes on with them. He shivered now at the thought that more of Boromir than his hopes walked with them. _After such a death, does he not deserve rest? _But there were more spirits in the world that his. He shook the thought aside. "Come. We must go on."

.

Boromir ran. He hunted. He pursued. It was all he was aware of. He ran to slay and to destroy and to save.

And yet, he recalled, he only just done very nearly the same thing, and had died doing it. He remembered arrows and earth and water. He could smell the Anduin as he ran, and he felt very weary. It seemed to take great strength not only to move his limbs, but to stop them from dissolving into mist. He reached out to grasp and his fingers passed through his target as if they were air. To touch took all his focus.

He ran and he reached. Fumbling, his fingers floated into the back of a goblin. It flinched, squeaked, and bolted, but he followed. On its back it bore a short bow and a sheaf of arrows.

_Arrows._ He remembered arrows. He felt them in his chest, a stubble of broken shafts stuck in him still. He touched the bow, and he could feel it now_. _He gripped it and his anger rose.

Splinters flew as the bow snapped. The bowstring looped around the monster's neck before it could scream. Black blood oozed out where the waxed cord sank into its skin.

Boromir felt terribly weary, but he grew strong.

.

*_Spoken by Frodo in_ The Fellowship of the Ring.

**_Okay, movie moment here._

_Thanks for reading and for reviewing!_


End file.
